


Coachella

by Kriegsandharris



Category: Florence + the Machine
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24319555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kriegsandharris/pseuds/Kriegsandharris
Summary: A broken foot leads to a confession slipping out.
Relationships: Isabella Summers/Florence Welch
Comments: 21
Kudos: 19





	Coachella

**Author's Note:**

> c/w: injury, brief references to drugs

_ It’s fucking hot _ , and it’s just about all Florence can think about as they reach the final song of the night. 

Whoever thought it would be a nice idea to have a huge festival in the middle of a literal desert was  _ so _ incredibly wrong, and Florence desperately tries to cool herself by blowing air towards her sweaty fringe during a slight pause to take a sip of water. Even though it is well past ten at night, the temperature is still soaring, and Florence is kicking herself for wearing  _ trousers _ of all things to perform a lengthy set.

The Coachella stage is an odd one; there is tons of space between the band and the crowd, and only a few songs ago Florence was worried that the show was going horribly wrong. This was, after all, one of their first big shows with the new songs. But after seeing plenty of couples making out, and teenagers crying, and people far older than her looking absolutely mesmerized by the music, she was able to relax a bit.

Now, she just needs to survive this fucking heat.

The harp begins and the muscle memory takes over, her voice effortlessly singing out the words she’s been reciting for years. There is a red haze covering the crowd, probably a reflection of the huge screens on either side of the stage, and Florence remembers to take a moment to try and breathe in the atmosphere. 

Once they finally reach the break in the middle of the song, Florence decides to make a bold move, desperate to cool off. 

“We would like everyone to remove an item of clothing,” she says, choosing to make it seem like it was a mutual decision among the band to encourage nudity. “You can do it! I see tops, I see shoes, I see hats!” she cries out as she paces the length of the stage. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Rob smile and shake his head as he continues playing the guitar riff.  _ You won’t _ he mouths cheekily when she looks up at him, daring Florence to strip in front of a crowd of thousands. 

She bites her lip and then quickly pulls her top over her head, clutching it to her chest as she looks out at the crowd. She can feel beads of sweat running down her back and chest, and it feels relieving to have the air hitting her bare skin. 

She goes through the rest of the “ritual,” as they had begun calling it, telling the crowd to jump as long and as high as they can for the remaining duration of the song.

Just before the song picks back up, she saunters over to Rob as he smirks. “You should know better than to dare me to do something, fuck you,” she says with a smile on her face. 

“This is just like Brixton,” Rob says with a laugh, referencing back the time when Florence took off a dress at Brixton Academy, leaving her just in a very thin t-shirt and a sparkly pair of pants.

She turns her back to the crowd and extends her arms above her head, not wanting the cameras to get any more close-ups of her thin bralette than necessary. Isa gives her a shout of approval from behind her keyboard, and then throws her head back in laughter at Florence’s antics as Florence laughs back. 

She turns around, nods at Rob, and then begins the final refrain of the night.   


“One, two, three, Coachella! Run fast for your mother, run fast for your father,” she half sings, half shouts as she ungracefully jumps off the stage to run through the crowd. 

She braces her free hand against a speaker in an effort to lessen the impact as she clambers down to the dry grass below, but still manages to land awkwardly on her toes. 

As soon as she lands there is a horrendous sharp pain through the middle of her foot, and she can feel her ankle awkwardly roll in. She briefly considers singing the rest of the song from just below the stage, or even sitting on one of the stairs, but she ultimately makes a conscious decision to run now and assess later. 

The running makes it worse, she finds, but she does her best to just keep going, figuring it is probably just a mild ankle sprain like she did so many times as a kid. 

By the end of the song, she is in so much pain that she just collapses into the grass, giving her foot a quick respite from the overwhelming amount of pain it is in. As the photographers begin to flood around her though, she quickly realizes that remaining there is not a viable option. 

“Thank you Coachella, goodnight!” she shouts as a quick shot of adrenaline allows her to get up and climb back up the stage. She pushes herself up with her arms and gets her knees back up, but as soon as she places her foot down, it feels as if someone had brought a hammer down right in the middle of it. 

She limps to the wings of the stage, and then once again collapses behind a stack of speakers. 

_ If I can’t see them, they can’t see me _ , she figures as she curls into a ball, gripping her foot with both hands. As she begins to wail, she has the thought to remove the sound pack from her trousers and make sure it is completely off before letting out a huge scream that goes undetected in the large and loud space.

She has to actually look at her foot to make sure that there isn’t somehow a knife going through it, because somehow, that’s exactly what it  _ feels _ like. Alas, there isn’t, but there the normally boney top of her foot is puffy, swollen, and red. 

She continues groaning in pain, hot tears pouring down her face, for what feels like hours but is in reality is only a few minutes. After a while, she realizes that she is on the wrong side of the stage, a complete dead end where only equipment is stored. 

She holds her breath and hopes that someone will find her quickly as she listens to the crowd dissipate. 

Eventually, the lights go out, and she can see a single flash light combing through the darkness.

“Hello?” she says quietly, as the bright light hits her face. As her eyes adjust, she recognizes the large man assigned to be her bodyguard for the week with Isa and Rob following closely behind him.    


“ _ Fuck _ , what are you doing here Flo?” Rob asks incredulously as he crouches down to get closer to her. “We’ve been looking for you.”

Through her erratic breaths and her hands covering her face, she gets out an answer. “I’m fairly certain I broke my foot, and it’s fucking  _ killing _ .”

“How the  _ fuck _ —” Isa begins to ask before getting cut off by a guttural groan of pain from Florence. “Okay, okay. Can you find a medic?” Isa asks, turning to the bodyguard. He nods and then swiftly leaves. 

“Do you think you can get to the other side?” Rob asks, referring to the side of the stage that has actual rooms rather than a dark abyss of electrical equipment. 

“No,” Florence says meekly. “I don’t think I can move right now.”   


“Okay,” Rob says gently. Wordlessly, he slips one arm under Florence’s knees and the other under her arms and behind her back. Slowly, carefully, he walks Florence across the dark stage and towards the girl’s dressing room, which he is pretty sure has a couch if he remembers correctly. 

In the bright hallway, they are almost immediately met by the bodyguard and a whole crew of people in bright blue polos with bags and bags full of medical supplies. 

“I’m going to bring her in there,” he says, motioning to the door with his head. They all move aside, letting Rob and Florence through the threshold first. 

“Holy shit,” Roo says as she instinctively moves off the couch along with the other girls. “What did she do?”   


Rob gingerly places Florence down on the sofa, and one of the medics immediately steps in, helping her lay back and elevate her clearly injured foot over the arm of the sofa. Everyone in the band except for Rob and Isa leave the cramped space, letting the medics get to work. 

Florence is in so much pain that she doesn’t even notice when one of the medics places an IV into the back of her left hand. “Okay, you’re going to start feeling better soon,” she hears the woman say as an older man places her foot and ankle in a splint. “Before I give you anything—any history of illegal drug use?” she asks, looking Florence in the eye.    


_ I’m a musician, no shit I have a history of illegal drug use _ , she thinks as she bites her lip from the pain. Someone is wrapping a blanket around her still-bare torso as she tries to answer the question.    


“Yes, but I’m sober now. I—”   


“Hey, don’t really think history matters for this one,” the man at her foot says to the woman next to her, motioning at her quickly bruising and swelling foot.    


Florence feels sick as she watches the woman’s face flinch from the sight of her foot. “Okay,” she says, quickly filling a syringe from a vial of clear liquid. “You should be pain-free in a few minutes.”   


Before Florence knows it, she feels like she is back in 2006, her body completely weightless as she studies the lights above her swell with each breath. Her foot is long forgotten as she studies her friends faces, laughing as their eyes move around and their mouths distort into weird shapes. The walls around her seem to get wider and wider, until she is suddenly alone in a huge white room by herself. Suddenly there is rain pouring down, and Florence marvels at how it changes colors once it hits her hands, evaporating into rainbows right before her eyes.   
  
While Florence hallucinates on the sofa, laughing to herself as she studies her hands just above her face, Rob and Isa carefully listen to the paramedic and a doctor he has on the phone. 

“They won’t be able to really do anything for her tonight, and the medicine they’ve given her should last well into tomorrow afternoon. Bring her in first thing in the morning and they’ll be able to do imaging and get everything squared away,” the doctor says through the line. “Just make sure that she is not left alone  _ at all  _ tonight, the medicine they gave her is very strong.”

—

“Do you ever think about the fact, that like, all of us is just  _ in here _ ,” Florence says, motioning to her head as Isa carefully lays a towel and then a bag of ice over Florence’s elevated foot. “Like, all of our memories, our personality, everything we create just fits in here. Isn’t that  _ fucking _ crazy?”

The morphine has started to wear off, but not by much, and Isa is starting to grow tired of Florence’s ramblings. She had finally managed to get Florence undressed, changed into a pair of cotton shorts and a massive t-shirt, washed her face, brushed her hair, and got her lying in the bed just as the medic had instructed her to, but now Florence will  _ not _ shut up.

“Florence, I love you, but I have  _ not _ missed your inebriated rants,” Isa says, shutting her eyes and burying her face into the pillow she brought over to the small couch on the opposite side of the room.    


Florence cackles from the bed. “We should try writing a song right now. I bet we could make a whole album’s worth by morning.”

“Flo,” Isa draws out. “It’s three in the morning, what will make you sleep?”

“Cuddles,” Florence replies plainly. 

“ _ You’ve got to be fucking kidding _ ,” Isa says under her breath, wishing she had known that information about two hours ago. Isa gets up, taking her pillow with her, and carefully lies down next to Florence, being ever mindful of her foot. “Come here,” she says gently, wrapping an arm around Florence and letting her rest her head on her chest.    


Quietly, she strokes Florence’s hair, hoping that she will finally fall asleep.    


Isa enjoys the silence for about ten minutes before Florence’s voice reappears. 

“You know, I really wish you’d just kiss me,” Florence says, her voice still unmistakably the voice of drunk-and-or-high-Florence that Isa had grown familiar with through the years. 

“Oh yeah?” Isa responds, not sure what to make of that statement. Given their history, Florence was wandering into troubled waters. “We used to kiss all the fucking time,” she says with a certain, subtle bite.

Florence lets out a disgruntled sigh. “Not like that. I wish you’d  _ actually _ kiss me like you kiss other girls.”   


Isa feels her heart beat harder as she tries to figure out what Florence is talking about. Her exes? The random girls in dark clubs?

“Alright, well once you’re not as high as a kite you can explain what you mean by that,” Isa says with a little laugh. “Try and get some sleep, Flo,” she says, placing a small kiss on Florence’s forehead as her mind races.

—

The next morning Florence wakes up in a decent amount of pain, and  _ much _ more lucid.

“Holy shit, how the fuck did I do this,” she says, studying the swirls of purple and green encompassing her entire right foot.

“I believe you stripped and then jumped off of a stage,” Isa replies, handing Florence a glass of water and two red tablets. It reminds her of many mornings they had woken up hungover in various places throughout the world just a few short years ago. “It was like Brixton all over again—you were half naked on stage, and then higher than god shortly afterwards.”

“That’s exactly what Rob said  _ while we were still on stage, _ ” Florence groans, looking at Isa who is already dressed for the day in a casual dress. Where are you off to?”   


“ _ We’re _ off to the hospital to get your foot checked out,” she says, offering Florence a hand to help her shift to sitting up on the edge of the bed. She hands Florence a bra and a casual blouse, which she quickly pulls over her head after removing her t-shirt, and then helps her delicately remove her sleep shorts over her foot before replacing them with a pair of denim shorts. 

Isa helps Florence get up to the bathroom, Florence wincing with every small movement as she awkwardly drapes her arm around Isa’s shoulders.

Just as Florence shuts the door to the bathroom, there is a knocking at the door.    


“How is she?” Rob asks quietly as Isa opens the door.    


“She’s okay,” Isa replies.    


“Who’s that?” Florence shouts from the bathroom.   


“ _ Rob _ .”   


“ _ It’s me _ ,” they reply simultaneously. 

Florence emerges from the bathroom with her hair in a bun reminiscent of her 2009 style, and a bare face. “So how are we doing this?” she asks as she looks between them, knowing that their normal protocol of quickly sneaking down a fire escape and through a back door is probably not an option given her current state. 

She finds out exactly how they’re doing this five minutes later. “Do  _ not _ fucking drop me,” she says as Rob precariously carries her down the stairwell. “I know we’ve been friends for over a decade, but that would be a serious deal-breaker,” she deadpans, feeling like a diva as Rob carries her in his arms with Isa and the bodyguard following closely behind.

“I guess you don’t remember me carrying you  _ up _ the stairs last night then,” he says, slightly out of breath as they reach the last landing.

Florence laughs. “You were  _ just _ complaining the other day that you never get to workout anymore—here’s your opportunity, you’re welcome,” Florence says with a small grin.

—

At the hospital, a doctor confirms what Florence already knows—her third metatarsal is completely fractured, and there is nothing they can really do other than give her mild pain medication and a walking boot. 

“These shows are going to  _ suck _ ,” she says in the car on the way back, wishing she could go back and tell herself that perhaps she should take the stairs down to the grass instead of carelessly jumping off a tall stage. 

When they get back to the hotel, Rob once again carries her up the stairs before carefully standing her up just outside her room. With Isa’s help, she hobbles over to the bed and rests her back against the headboard before putting a few pillows under her foot. Isa returns after a moment, sympathetically looking at Florence before placing yet another towel and bag of ice over the horrendously colorful foot. 

After a few short minutes of talking and crying and trying to subsequently  _ hide _ said crying with Isa, Florence’s managers arrive. 

“Hi, honey,” Mairead says sweetly, giving Florence a hug before stepping aside to let Hannah do the same. “How are you doing?”   


Florence bobbles her head side to side as if to signify that she isn’t entirely sure. “Better than last night, for sure. Though I really don’t remember much after the painkillers.”

“That’s good,” Hannah says, opening up breakfast sandwiches out of a brown paper bag. “Rob was saying you were in a lot of pain.”   


Florence nods, taking a small bite out of the sandwich. “Yeah, I’m kind of wondering how bad it’s going to get once whatever they gave me yesterday wears off.”   
  
_ Really _ bad, it turns out. Instead of going back to the festival to watch other bands play and hang out with friends, Florence and Isa stay put in the room as Florence does her best to be still and forget about the pain. They watch movies, talk about the witch album that they’re  _ still _ upset they weren’t able to make, brainstorm several musicals using the few songs they had from said album, let in various visitors who want to express their well-wishes, and order room service once the sun coming through the window goes dark. 

“You doing okay?” Isa asks once the trays are set aside and they are both dressed for sleep. 

“Yeah, this just hurts like a bitch,” Florence says, shaking her head. “I don’t know how I’m going to be able to do these shows,” she adds, referencing the two shows they have left for the week.   


“We’ll get through them,” Isa says gently grabbing Florence’s hand.    


Suddenly Florence has a flash of memory from last night, and she hesitantly asks Isa a question. 

“Did I—did I say anything weird while I was on the painkillers?”   


Isa laughs but feels adrenaline course through her body as she remembers what Florence said just before they went to bed. _ I wish you would just kiss me _ .

“I mean—you went on a philosophical rant about brains, but ehm—yeah, no, not really,” Isa says, deciding not to open  _ that _ issue up. 

It’s not like the flirting between them through the years had gone unaddressed; it’s just that anytime Isa had brought it up, however casually, Florence had laughed it off,  _ insisting _ that she was straight and that Isa was reading too much into it. Isa had been out to Florence as long as they had known each other, and Isa had given Florence more than an ample amount of opportunities to discuss her sexuality. When they were younger, Florence would get defensive, simply telling Isa that kissing girls doesn’t necessarily make her “not-straight.” When Florence had moved on to kissing  _ Isa _ , however, Isa pressed the issue. The kisses never lasted more than a few seconds, but considering they were accompanied by a heavy amount of flirting, they deserved an explanation. 

Isa was met with a laugh though, Florence saying that she just loved Isa very much and that she was affectionate with  _ all _ of her friends. It made Isa feel stupid, so desperate for Florence to admit to being something she wasn’t, but eventually she learned to let it go and accept Florence for what she was; a  _ very _ touchy,  _ purely _ platonic friend.

Florence looks at Isa quizzically, and then cracks a small, nervous smile. “That’s not all I said, is it?” she poses as less of a question and more of a statement. 

“No,” Isa breathes out. “You ehm... you told me you wish I’d kiss you.”

Florence closes her eyes and bites her lip in embarrassment. “Yeah, that’s what I was afraid I said. I was hoping I had just misremembered that.”

“You’re fine, Flo,” Isa nervously says with a laugh. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m sorry,” she says sincerely, opening her eyes to look at Isa. 

Isa waits for an explanation, but is met with silence. “For what?” she eventually asks. 

Florence sighs and then shakes her head. “For basically gaslighting you when we were younger,” she says seriously. 

Isa furrows her eyebrows as her heart speeds up. Even though it is true if Florence is saying what she  _ thinks _ she is saying, that was  _ not _ what she was expecting. “What do you mean?”   


“I mean, all those times I would lead you on, and then essentially make you think you were crazy for thinking I might like you.”

Isa shakes her head. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. We got it sorted out.” If Florence is going to apologize for those years, Isa is going to make her fully explain them.

Florence dramatically shakes her head, and Isa can see tears glossing over her eyes. “Maybe you did, and I’m really happy you did because I never wanted to hurt you. But, yeah— _ I _ never got it sorted out,” she says shakily. “Turns out I need fucking morphine to be brave enough to say it out loud.”

Isa contemplates what Florence is saying for a moment, but it still isn’t making much sense. “I don’t know what you mean, Flo,” she says, moving herself closer to her on the bed. She wipes a tear off of Florence’s cheek as Florence carefully sits up a bit. 

“Sorry, all of these medicines are making me emotional, I think,” Florence says with a little laugh, half lying. The truth is, she gets emotional  _ any _ time she thinks about Isa, and what they could have been if her younger self hadn’t been so caught up in shame.

“It’s okay,” Isa says, gently rubbing her shoulder. “What haven’t you got sorted out, though?”   


“Isa, I—” she shakes her head, looking to the ceiling as if it might give her answers. “I’ve really liked you for almost a decade, and it’s been eating me alive, for, well— _ almost a decade. _ ” 

Isa bites her lip, and old feelings come rushing back. “So you  _ actually _ meant what you said last night.”

Florence nods her head. “For some reason, I’ve always been okay with myself up until the point of actually having to admit that I’m gay, or bisexual, or  _ whatever _ the fuck I am. And that was what was holding me up. But I can’t do that anymore—I don’t  _ want _ to do that anymore. The fact that I said that to you while my guard was down last night is just kind of proof.”

“So you’re coming out to me,” Isa says slowly. 

Florence nods her head. “Yeah. I’m sorry I couldn’t do it years ago. And I know I already said it, but I’m  _ really _ sorry for leading you on like that.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Isa says, pressing a kiss into Florence’s temple. “I forgave you a long time ago.”   


Florence nods, taking in Isa’s words. “Thank you,” is all she can manage to get out.

“So,” Isa says, turning to Florence. “Can I kiss you now?”   


Florence laughs at the ridiculousness of the situation—cooped up in a small hotel room in the California desert, with a broken foot propped up on some pillows, about to kiss Isa just moments after mustering up the courage to admit something that had terrified her for so long.

“Yeah. Yeah you can.”

**Author's Note:**

> just a quick middle-of-the-night oneshot! inspired by the 2015 Q magazine article (I can post screenshots on tumblr if anyone wants it, i don't think it's available online). basically florence was sober, and the painkillers used in the us are so strong that she started hallucinating off of them (i've been there done that too lol). full disclosure there is a good chance i'll rework this into a future fic, so don't be surprised if it pops back up again!
> 
> vid of flo stripping/breaking foot at 2015 coachella: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1gXzfl7BCNI  
> vid of flo stripping at brixton in 2009 ("I never thought I'd be playing Brixton Academy in my pants"—bless her): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=edw7VdwwFbM&t=1180s (19:40)
> 
> i love reading feedback/comments, they make me so so happy :) please leave your thoughts! i hope you're all doing well xx


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